


Nemeseia Lunaris

by Amigara



Series: The Moon and the Sun [2]
Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - (Almost) Everyone Dies, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Death, Dissociation, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gen, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Manga & Anime, Manga Details, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, POV Second Person, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Revenge, Self-Hatred, Sibling Incest, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violence, anime timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-05-19 06:59:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19351834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amigara/pseuds/Amigara
Summary: There will be no escape from the beast you are about to unleash on the world.-----Ash Lynx is destined to become a great revenge demon, to reign in blood and pain. Yut-Lung decides to help him fulfill his destiny after witnessing Shorter's and Eiji's death at the mercy of Banana Fish. Together, they might have a chance to destroy the men who ruined them.Somewhat rambling, probably slow-burn. Tags to be updated as story progresses. Begins where Abrus Precatorius ends.





	1. The Moon

**Author's Note:**

> The Greek Goddess Nemesis was the avenger of crime and the dealer of justice and punishment. The Nemeseia was a festival in her honor, to soothe the spirits of the dead and avoid their punishment for crimes committed against them.

Trembling outside a side door to the torture chamber, you struggle to catch your breath. You are no longer a stranger to death, nor to causing it yourself, but there is a world of a difference between discreet, slow-acting poisons or carefully aimed pins.

 

It has been a long time since you saw such visceral brutality. Since you tasted blood on the air.

 

For a moment or maybe an eternity, you split into two. One a jaded agent, the other a frightened child. You feel the heat of Hua-Lung’s body behind you, though you know you are alone in the hallway. The image of your brothers massacring your mother overlap with what is going on in the room before you, another violation, just as vicious.

 

So this is Banana Fish.

 

This is what drove a wedge between Ash Lynx and the Monsieur, and this is something that will change the world forever.

 

You shake away the memory of horrors to focus on the horror of the present. Shorter Wong, whose body and mind has been brutalized by this new poison, lands the killing blow. You had assumed that Ash Lynx would choose an older friend over what you gathered to be a comparatively new acquaintance, despite Shorter’s forced betrayal. And yet, you see the expression on the Lynx’s face. 

 

It stabs you in the heart with its wrongness. The cold, calculated genius is gone. The hardened killer the Monsieur spoke so highly of, as if meaning to make you jealous, looked like a frightened child. 

 

You watch as Shorter ends his own torment. You know it is the drug. You still envy his bravery. 

 

Arthur is laughing, a grating, awful sound. You’ve met so many despicable people in your life, yet rarely someone so useless, at the same time. The Monsieur is despicable, but highly useful. As are your brothers, for now. Frederick Arthur, on the other hand… he has no grace, cunning or talent. It irks you, the way the Monsieur seems to indulge him. 

 

One of the Monsieur’s men ends the two journalists in a far less dramatic way than the Japanese boy and Shorter met their fate. Two bullets, one each, and the torture chamber falls quiet. The bodies gathered up, the entertainment is over. You watch where the scientist goes, taking Shorter’s body with him.

 

Ash Lynx is still chained by his wrists, alone in the room beyond the door. He barely moves, and seems to be whispering something under his breath. You are curious, but there is something that is far more useful to you at the moment. You are still shaking from the horrific display, but you need to get moving. You need to be in the bedroom when the Monsieur returns.

 

Afterwards, you wait for the Monsieur to leave with Arthur and the entourage of the politically powerful. Banana Fish makes little sense as a recreational drug, as you told your brothers. But other uses are making more and more sense to you. The military, the republican senator… they were here for a reason, a plot you are beginning to piece together.

 

Hiding away in the master bedroom, as the honored hostage you are, you contact Suk-Leui and through her, Hua-Lung. With this new information, you can begin to play one brother against the other in earnest. Hua-Lung may not have been able to show it in front of Wang-Lung, but you know him well enough to know that he does not like you being away from him for so long. You also know Wang-Lung well enough to know that he does not like to feel left in the dark. If Wang-Lung believes Hua-Lung is having you keep secrets, his distrust of Hua-Lung will grow.

 

You will not forget what Wang-Lung and the others did to your mother. You also will not forget that Hua-Lung kept you safe from them, nor what he thinks you owe him because of it.

 

Once Hua-Lung has been informed that you’ve learned something, and you are confident you’ve been sneaky enough that word will get back to Wang-Lung, you set your sights to the next step. You learned the code to the door, of course, and tiptoe through the halls, back towards the basement. Here and there you see the Monsieur’s men. Most ignore you, some glare, a few direct some lewd comment your way. Yet, you are Golzine’s ‘guest’. So long as you do not attempt to leave the mansion, they make no move to interfere with you. Perhaps they are only there to observe you, as you are there to observe them. Dino Golzine has been in this world for a long time. He must know you’re here to gather information. 

 

You go through a new hallway. Below ground level, the mansion in labyrinthine. It makes sense, if it was expanded and rebuilt to facilitate less than legal purposes. You pass thick doors locked with keypads. You pass what may be a morgue, or another dungeon. That is when the fighting begins above you.

 

You hear the shouts and gunshots and at first, you are confused. Then you hear the voices, young and energetic. Of course. Ash Lynx is respected by his gang, and if he had taught them right, they would be on the lookout for his return. Then you hear other voices, shouting in Chinese.

 

You need to hurry.

 

You quicken your steps and slip into a brightly lit laboratory. A group of scientists and Golzine’s armed men rush out through a back door, leaving one single man alone to finish packing up his things.

 

His back is turned to you, but you recognize him as the man who had been in the torture chamber. More than that, you recognize him as Alexis Dawson’s little brother - your uncle, as it were, had you still been in character.

 

He is muttering to himself as he packs up samples and paperwork in a suitcase. Shorter Wong lies on a table, his skull cut open and emptied.

 

You smile and adjust your robes, before clearing your throat. The man stiffens instantly and shoots up straight, turning to stare at you incredulously.

 

“You… who are you? What are you doing here?!” His eyes narrow behind his glasses and he takes a step back, hiding the suitcase behind his back. 

 

He is afraid of you. How amusing. You feel your smile widen. 

 

“So you created that hideous substance… hm. Or, I suppose, your brother did. And you were simply shrewd enough to make sure you profited off of it”, you say. This man annoys you nearly as much as Arthur. 

 

It’s his hypocrisy, you decide, that is irritating you the most.

 

You lean in closer to him, close enough to feel his breath on your skin. Close enough to embrace. He smells of sweat and antiseptic. 

 

You slip a needle out of your sleeve, holding it delicately between two fingers as your arms loosely fold themselves over his shoulders.

 

Abraham Dawson makes no move to stop you, though he seems confused, torn between fear and seeming arousal. 

 

“U-uh, I don’t…” He stammers a lackluster protest, and you sink your needle into just the right spot on the back of his neck.

 

“You claim that drug of fear and death as yours, Abraham Dawson”, you whisper in his ear. “But do you fear death, yourself?”

 

You step back, and he looks at you without comprehension for a moment. You see his body jerk as he attempts to take a step, only for his legs to fold beneath him.

 

You robbed him of voluntary muscle control, and he seems to realize as much as he begins to panic on the floor. 

 

You smile down at him. There will be no escape from the beast you are about to unleash on the world.


	2. The Sun

You wake up. 

You wish you hadn't, but you do. Everything aches, your body less so than everything else. You are used to being in pain, used to ignoring your own physical needs. 

You should be used to the other pains by now, too. You haven't yet opened your sore eyes, but you know what you will see when you do. Drying blood stains on the concrete. The final marks your friends left on the world. 

Shorter. Your best friend, who's had your back since juvie. Who knew enough about you that you didn't feel ashamed around him, yet had the grace never to push for more. Lighthearted, yet fiercely loyal. 

You'd never be able to tell him you understand his choice, now. That you forgive him. 

Eiji. The strange, foreign boy who just appeared one day and gave you hope. The boy who flew, who saved your life. Who listened to you cry, who tended your wounds. Who stood up to your old man, no less. Without judgment.

You should have tried harder to push him away. But you wanted to badly to lean into that comfort. To believe that you were someone who deserved love, despite all evidence to the contrary.

Ibe. Eiji's friend, who came along with you all the way from New York via Cape Cod to Los Angeles. Sure, he did it for Eiji's sake more than yours, but still. 

And now you'll never get to see the picture he took of Eiji jumping, that time. 

Max. Griffin's best friend. You had grown to trust him, to let him set boundaries for you. He had a family. A son. It was his birthday, just a couple of days ago.

You wallow in it. What else is there left for you? Arthur made it perfectly clear. This show was all for you. A means of torture, the mental before the physical. You will die soon, too. You take solace in it. 

A heartbeat. Your hesitation. 

You could have saved Eiji, at least. 

You feel the presence, the eyes on you, like you were doused in ice water. Your body tenses up and gasp, painful and ragged. Your vision is blurry when you open your eyes, and you are confused at first. 

Eiji stand before you in the dark, and you think you have finally gotten your wish. Eiji, an angel, has come to collect you. 

Then you blink the tears from your eyes. Their faces are similar, their eyes and hair as dark. But there is a cold calculation to Yau-Si's gaze. 

The stab of rage you feel is dulled by the hopelessness of everything. You are to blame for this, but so is he. He forced Shorter's hand, and he sold Eiji and Shorter out to Dino. 

Yet you were the one who told Lee Wang-Lung were you were going. You underestimated his interest in you, and his interest in keeping a civil relationship with the Corsicans. 

Yet your hatred must be showing, because the boy leans into your space, and speaks to you. 

"After all that, you still have the energy to glare at me. Good. You are strong."

You don't feel strong. You feel powerless. 

He touches your cuts and bruises - you had almost forgotten getting beat up by the Chinese thugs before being loaded onto that plane - and you recoil sharply, making the chains rattle above you. 

"Shh," he hushes you, yet continues with his administrations. A cool comfort settles into your wounds. You think of Eiji, bandaging you up after Marvin. Your heart aches, and your eyes burn. "It's a healing ointment. That Arthur is a brute."

You sneer at his hypocrisy. "Your men roughed me up, too. At your 'dad's' place. The same guys you had rape Jessica as a distraction."

Yau-Si pulls back and narrows his eyes at you. He dislikes what you said, but you can't tell if it was the part about the rape or about Dawson. 

"Those were my brother's men. Hua-Lung. I wouldn't…" He scoff and turns away, not meeting your eyes now. You recognize shame in his expression, and it makes your mind buzz with confusion. This manipulative snake, ashamed of something. Your mind files it away under 'potential useful information about the enemy'. 

Everyone is dead and soon you will be, too. Yet, your mind is always scheming. Never quiet.

"Did you come to kill me?" You ask him, unable to keep the trace of hope out of your voice. 

He frowns at you. "Would I heal you if I did? No. I have come to free you."

“I will tear you apart,” you sneer. Given the opportunity… given all you’ve just lost, directly as a result of this boy’s actions. For a moment, your self-hatred shifts into simple, easily enjoyed hatred. And you direct it onto the pretty face in front of yours, onto this boy barely your age.

“That won’t help you get revenge,” he replies, and steps away from you to flip the lever that slackens your chains. Your knees fold nearly immediately as your weight shifts off your wrists and shoulders and onto your feet. But you pull yourself up quickly, staggering as you regain your composure. You cannot appear weak in front of an enemy. Even one who treated your wounds. Dino hired doctors for you. Even Marvin made sure you didn’t go home to the mansion bleeding. It changes nothing.

“Your name isn’t really Yau-Si Dawson,” you say. It is not a question, yet you still seek an answer. He is a Lee. Hua-Lung is the third brother, Wang-Lung the eldest. And this one…

“Lee Yut-Lung,” he introduces himself. “The youngest son.” 

He pulls a key from the inside of his sleeve, and when your eyes land on it, he titters in a rare display of pride. “I got it from the guard outside. He will not be needing it anymore.”

He leans in against you and you reel back so fast you nearly topple backwards. Yut-Lung stills and pauses, watching you struggle but not moving to touch you again.

“I am going to unlock your handcuffs,” he says. Holding the key up again so you can see it, and holding the other hand up as well. You see no weapons, but can’t be sure that means he is currently harmless. You are pretty certain Yut-Lung’s seeming vulnerability is exactly what makes him dangerous. You know the tactic well.

“I will kill you as soon as you do,” you threaten once more. 

He smiles. There is numbness in his eyes. “Then I wish you luck.”

He leans in slowly, telegraphing every movement. You watch his hands cautiously for any tricks. 

The stench clings in your nose, a scent memory so ingrained in your piriform cortex that it triggers your gag reflex and you have to gasp, swallowing saliva and bile. It is not a bad smell in itself, and probably not nearly as overpowering as you imagine it. Just as you can name and age expensive wines by taste, you’d recognize that cologne anywhere.

“You smell like him,” you feel yourself growl before you even think of the words. “Why?”

Yut-Lung steps back and quirks an eyebrow at you as you rub the numbness out of your wrists. He understands what you mean without further explanation. 

“Because I happen to be a hostage of the Monsieur, of course. You know how he operates. Luckily your arrival interrupted him before he could enjoy that Japanese boy, too. I assume that when he returns, he intends for you and I to-”

You’ve already tuned him out. At the mention of Eiji your vision blacks out and in the next moment you are on top of Yut-Lung, pinning him to the blood-stained concrete floor with your hands tightened around his neck.

This venomous snake. This cruel, manipulative bastard. He forced Shorter to betray you, and he kidnapped Eiji, and it is his fault they are dead, along with Ibe and Max. You're picturing his smirk as Dino's hands rake across Eiji's body, and you squeeze. 

And he doesn't fight you. His body is limp between your thighs, and his pulse drums rapidly against your fingers, and he stares blankly up at you, accepting your violence. Your rage. 

You flash back to a prison cell, to Max with that thousand yard stare on top of you, to a learned response. To Marvin, who eventually lost interest if you stopped fighting, stopped crying. 

You scramble off of him, tasting bile. A heartbeat later, you're retching on the floor. Romanee-Conti from 1969 and champagne sorbet. 

Yut-Lung stays where you left him, only sitting up slowly to brush himself off once you stop throwing up. You exchange a glance, tense and questioning. It's hard to read his dark eyes. You think you might be seeing regret there. Or understanding. 

"I am sorry," he says. "For what happened. I didn't know-"

Your glare cuts him off. Yut-Lung clears his throat and pushes himself up to his feet. He extends a hand in offer, to help you up.

“I do not blame you for your hatred. You have earned it.”

There is something about what he says, how he says it, sage-like yet soothing, that reminds you of Blanca. It’s another punch in the gut. He left you, too. Or you drove him away. He always said he was simply tired of the role he was given, and took off. But you wonder now if it was not that he realized how toxic your presence was.

You kill everything you touch.

You take Yut-Lung's hand.


	3. Daybreak

The two of you emerge from the execution room to the noise of blaring alarms and gunfire. Ash looks at you incredulously, and you nod. 

“Your boys are here. As are Shorter’s. I suppose your return home did not go as unnoticed as my brothers wished. Clever of them to wait until the Monsieur left.” You adjust your robes - thinking about your brothers’ plans being ruined by street thugs fills you with a very unusual feeling of satisfaction. 

But the mention of Wong’s name turn’s Ash’s expression sour, his eyes dark and distant. It is still a raw wound, and he allows himself to bleed rage and despair into the air around him without shame. In contrast, you have lived your life so dependent on those who cut you open that you learned not to let anyone see you bleed. You know Ash was the same, until this pushed him across some kind of line. You saw him at the Monsieur’s dinner party, unhappy but contained.

Now, he seethes.

He makes a move down the wrong hallway, and you lay a hand on his arm to stop him. He whips his arm back, breaking your hold.

“I have a gift for you,” you tell him. "Before we leave this place."

He narrows his eyes. He is right to be suspicious of you.

“Abraham Dawson. And what remains of Shorter Wong.”

“Show me,” he snarls.

You do. Retracing your steps swiftly and accurately. There is no one stopping you here. The guards at the doors to the execution chamber are dead, and all who remain of the Monsieur’s men have rushed to the action at the ground floor, attempting to hold back the invasion of street thugs.

They will have to wait for you. 

You open the door to the lab, and Abraham cries out, mistaking you at first for Golzine's men. 

"Help! Help, I was attacked by that Chinese woman, she-" 

He cuts himself off as you step down the stairs, followed by Ash. You step aside and watch his reaction. 

And it is a delight. A blank expression twists into anger when he lays eyes on Abraham, who mocked him and who made Shorter Wong dance for the Monsieur's amusement, for his little show. 

"Please. Please, I have to do what they tell me. I had to… We needed a brain, and-" 

Ash's gaze follows Abraham's flitting eyes to the surgical table, to the pale and cold corpse that lays upon it. Face peeled aside, the top of the skull cut open and placed aside. A scalp, with an unmistakable tuft of purple on top, black roots showing between dye jobs. Shorter Wong's sunglasses lay neatly folded next to his lifeless body. His eyes are empty, unseeing as they stare up onto a blank ceiling. He is hollowed out, all that makes a person taken away to be prodded and tested elsewhere. 

Shorter Wong had cried over you. No one had cried over you since your mother. 

You feel an emptiness, a gap somewhere in your heart. An empty flower bed, a seed failing to germinate. 

In Ash's eyes, you don't see emptiness. You see fire. Instead of impotence, there is righteous rage. You shudder. 

You want that fire. Burn it all clean. 

Ash screams. It's a broken howl, and then you see the demon. You saw a glimpse of it when he pinned you to the floor of the execution room, but now there is no holding him back. 

He is upon the paralyzed Abraham in a heartbeat. He punches him in the face, breaking his glasses and his own knuckles. Abraham screams and pleads - it is all he can do, thanks to your needles - but Ash is taking it all out on him. 

This makes two acts of utter brutality, witnessed on the same night. Blood splatters across the clinically clean walls. The impact of flesh on flesh slows as Ash wears himself out battering a foe who has no ability to resist. Abraham’s cries turn more and more guttural, until he can do little less but groan and wheeze through his broken face. He looks nothing like a human anymore. Neither does Ash, bloodied and gasping for breath with an expression not unlike the one Shorter Wong wore in his final moments.

What was it that Abraham had said in that chamber? There is no target that will ease his suffering. The invisible pain is still inside him, even as he stands over the mutilated body.

Somewhere above ground, far away in another war zone, you still hear gunshots.

You touch Ash’s arm and he reels back as if to pummel you too. You cannot help but flinch. You see blood and brain matter clinging to his skin. Abraham still rasps for breath, bleeding out slowly on the floor.

“We should go. I’m sure the police has been called by now. They will be on their way.”

Ash regains his composure and stands. “Help me burn this place,” he says, wandering over to the corpse on the table. His messed up fingers close around Shorter’s sunglasses. Ash pockets them with a gentleness so completely at odds with the violence he carries inside of him. “I won’t let them touch Shorter. Never again.”

The two of you work quickly, finding flammable liquids in the lab and dousing every inch. Ash keeps his face turned away from you the whole time. He is crying silently. You do not mention his tears. 

Abraham still gargles and wheezes on the floor when Ash sets the room ablaze in an explosion of heat and smoke that makes you shy away. You feel your eyelashes curl back. Your skin burns like a fever.

You leave together. Neither of you speak. Ash silently picks glass and what may be broken teeth from his knuckles.

One time, when you were younger and foolish, you angered Wang-Lung. You don’t remember exactly what it was. Asking a question, refusing an order, maybe simply existing too loudly in his presence. He never went for your face before, but that time he did. He split his knuckles on your teeth. He made you make him a salve, and while you were applying it to his hand, still dripping blood on your own clothes, you wished you had poisoned it.

You reach the end of a hallway as the flames roar below you, quickly consuming the ostentatious mansion. You hear steps approaching and quickly pull Ash aside, pressing against the wall, should the steps belong to the Monsieur’s men. 

“Ash!” you hear a voice cry, followed by a “Boss!”. Ash pushes away from the wall and stands between you and the gang. They are as ragtag of a squad as you’d been told by Wang-Lung, an extraordinary mix of races and ethnicities that seems unthinkable to you. They are armed - some with guns, others with a number of improvised weaponry, from steel pipes to a lamp. It looks like the one the Monsieur kept in his lounge.

“Alex,” Ash says. It seems some of the strength zaps from him. He was running on fumes and rage, you understand, and these familiar faces trick his body to accept his exhaustion.

“You’re alive,” Alex’ smile is shaky, and he lowers his gun, hovering hesitatingly around Ash. Like he wants to touch, but holds back. The man looks older than Ash, yet he clings to Ash’s every expression. A well-trained dog, or a lovesick puppy. “Who’s that?” He asks, glancing at you. “Where’s Eiji?”

“We’re here for Shorter!” Another voice pipes up, and you recognize the face though you’ve never been formally introduced. You are a dirty secret, after all. A skeleton in your brothers’ closet. Sing Soo-Ling, Shorter Wong’s second-in-command. And with him, Shorter’s gang from Chinatown.

Ash is at a loss for words. His fists clench at his sides, his teeth grind behind pale, pursed lips. 

You step forward. 

“My name is Lee Yut-Lung.” A glimmer of suspicion, recognition, plays on Sing’s face, and you give him a silent nod. “As Ash, I was held hostage in this mansion. Okumura Eiji and Shorter Wong are dead. Murdered by Dino Golzine, and Frederick Arthur.”

It is not the whole truth, but it is more of the truth than Ash likely expected. Yet, from the widened eyes and whitening knuckles, you can tell it was the truth these people needed.

Ash wants revenge. So, it turns out, do you. And now, so do a minor army under Ash’s control.

“Then let’s wreck this place!” Sing shouts. He’s as much of a firecracker as Wang-Lung told you, all energy and pride. “These bastards think they can get away with killing one of us, and we’ll hit the rich prick where it hurts!”

“The place is already burning down.” Ash says in an eerily calm voice. “Old man Dino must have heard by now. Let’s get out before he brings in reinforcements.”

You don’t encounter any more of the Monsieur’s men on your way out - either they’ve all been killed, or they chose sense over loyalty and abandoned a lost battle. You see none of Hua-Lung’s men, either. 

You are all outside under the cold moon, the night air burns your skin in contrast to the heat of the fire now blazing high behind you. The mansion goes up in flames, painting the sky red. You hear sirens in the distance. You also hear the approach of a helicopter - your way out. You did not tell Hua-Lung any details, so you can only assume it’s the work of his men.

Ash’s gang is gearing up to leave on their motorcycles or in cars stolen from the Monsieur’s garage, when Ash turns to stare at the mansion in flames. You understand his wistfulness, you think. If you understand the situation right, this place was his gilded cage for years. 

“Eiji is still in there somewhere.” He murmurs.

You misunderstood his stare. 

“He will burn with the rest of it,” you say. You mean it as a comfort. “The Monsieur won’t touch him again, either.”

You clutch at your robes. Since Ash pointed it out, you can smell it too. Over the blood and smoke, you smell an earthy blend of spices and sweet Cham Heong. Cologne, imported, expensive.

“I will still kill you one day,” Ash says.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” you respond.

So he leaves, and you remain alone with Sing’s boys. The helicopter descends on you, and you turn to Sing. Your hair and clothing flutters about you from the wind of the helicopter’s blades, battering the smoky air around you.

“Get your people out of here, and come with me,” you tell him. You want to speak to him alone. There is something you need him to do for you. “I will tell my brothers you saved my life in there. They will forgive you for attacking an important ally of theirs.”

“All those old bastards are the same,” Sing snarls. “Money over our lives.” He spits on the ground by your feet.

He still gets into the helicopter after you as his gang clears out.

“You really hate my brothers,” you say, your voice barely audible over the sound of the helicopter as it leaves the Golzine compound and heads for New York City. Below, you see the red and blue lights of police cars and fire engines. You look forward to see how this will be spun in the news.

“Of course I do! I’m sick and tired of their deals… putting people like us, like Shorter, on the line! Now they’re selling us out to the fucking Corsicans! They have no honor.” Sing snaps.

You have to smile. You have never considered his perspective - raised so close to the rot and corruption, often being in the very middle of these ‘deals’ - in ballrooms and beds of the powerful - it amazes you that the polished surface your brothers work so hard to keep up fails to fool even your own footmen. 

“Shorter respected the Lees.” You say. He did, anyway, until he learned the truth. You remember the quickly cooling warmth of his tears on your face.

“And I respected him! But they killed him, didn’t they?! They didn’t like him hanging out with Ash, so they sent him off to Golzine to be sacrificed.” 

Sing has the fire and heart of Shorter, from what little you knew of him, but he’s not so naive as Shorter, yet more idealistic at the same time. He will be a useful weapon.

“Let me tell you a little secret, Sing Soo-Ling,” you start, and instantly get his attention. Stroke his ego, appeal to his idealism. A boy who thinks himself a rebel against corruption, an underdog fighting the Man. “Since you were Shorter’s most trusted man.” 

He leans in close. 

“I hate my brothers too. But we have to be clever about bringing them down. You will report to Wang-Lung, the same way Shorter did. But in actuality… you will work for me. I know my brothers better than anyone. But they don’t trust me completely yet. If we play our cards right”, you phrase it as if he is involved. As if this is also his plan, and not your own, brewed for years in your resentment. “we can overthrow all of them.”

His eyes are wide, glistening in the night. He can’t take his eyes off of you, gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips. He is not that much younger than you, you remember. Fourteen, perhaps, and endlessly more innocent. If he knew what you were under this painted skin, he might not fall for you so easily.

Yet you lean into it. You take his hand, pressing your secret into it. Sing looks down at the tiny parcel in his hand, then back up to your face in question.

“Keep this safe for me. Tell no one. If my brothers found it, everything is over for us. I trust you with this, Sing Soo-Ling.”

A blush spreads across his face, and you know that he is yours.


	4. Painted Skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please pay attention to the tags! This chapter does not go into explicit detail, but there are some scenes of sexual abuse. If you have watched/read Banana Fish, you likely know what to expect.
> 
> This chapter is also much longer than the others so far, so be warned. 
> 
> I took some liberties with naming an unnamed character from canon. I do not speak Cantonese at all, so if anything looks odd, do let me know.

The helicopter lands on the roof of Huayang Bank’s New York headquarters, as dawn breaks on the horizon. Wang-Lung’s men meets you as soon as you step out, and you hope you haven’t misread your oldest brother. Sing is with you, and you need him to stay alive for now.

 

“The Daai Yan wants you,” one of the men says, treating you with as much respect as Wang-Lung does. Even as they need you, none of them care for you.

 

The two men, armed under their suits, you are sure, give Sing a warning glare. The boy, of course, glares back with his hands stuffed stubbornly into his pockets.

 

You pray that he does not provoke them too much, that he takes your words to heart and stays calm, for now.

 

“This is Sing Soo-Ling,” you say with as much callous confidence as you can ever muster. Playing the arrogant nobleman, though you know they’re not likely fooled. You have not seen these two men before, but as they are Wang-Lung’s, they know of you. “Chinatown’s boss. He saved me.”

 

They do not search Sing’s pockets, but they are glaring at him intently all the same. You are both herded into the elevator.

 

It is a short ride to the penthouse suite, which serves as Wang-Lung’s main apartments and office in New York City. He has apartments in all cities across the world where Huayang Bank - and thereby the Lee family - operates. Huayang Bank is successful on its own, as the obvious choice for any expatriate Chinese around the world. It is also successful as a front for your family’s dark side. Money laundry, trade deals, contracts and financing for any number of smuggling operations. The Lee family deals in drugs first and foremost, flesh secondly, and nearly everything else after that.

 

The Daai Yan, your oldest brother, sits at his desk when you are showed into his office, the New York skyline hazy and burning orange behind him. The sun is rising. You feel the exhaustion deep in your bones, but your night is far from over. You want to take a shower.

 

Sing weighs from foot to foot behind you, clearly trying to play it cool yet at the same time, he’s probably never been face to face with Lee Wang-Lung, the Big Man himself, before. He is nervous. You don’t blame him.

 

Suk-Lieu is there too, a tiny old woman hovering near the door along with your brother’s many, many guards and assistants. You have always known she was as much your nanny as Wang-Lung’s spy. That was why you made sure to send the message to Hua-Lung through her. Because you knew she would come to Wang-Lung and tell him. And now, here she is. The betrayal no longer stings, but it is a dull throb regardless. Nothing in this world is yours, it all belongs, ultimately, to Wang-Lung. If you want anything for yourself, you will have to take it by force.

 

“Yau-Si,” Wang-Lung greets you, using your codename because of Sing’s presence. He does not know you have no desire to remain in the shadows any longer, and have already told Sing the truth. 

 

“Big brother,” you respond, your tone respectful but your word choice deliberate. If you remind him of his role, the elder, the protector, perhaps he will be merciful.

 

“And Sing Soo-Ling.” His piercing gaze falls on Sing, who stiffens under his glare. You glance back and see him falter, lowering his gaze. You almost pity him. He is only fourteen. But, you are only sixteen. You cannot afford sympathy. “I heard about your raid on the Golzine estate in New Jersey. I never approved such an attack.”

 

“Sing got me out of there,” you say. “I would have burned alive, locked in the Monsieur’s bedroom.” It is a partial lie, and it makes Sing furrow his brows in confusion, but this isn’t the time to explain. 

 

You know you are in a disarray, your hair a mess and your evening robes uneven. There is blood on you, possibly Abraham Dawson’s, or Ash’s. You smell like smoke. You need to take a shower. Your lie, you know, is convincing.

 

“How fortuitous.” Wang-Lung says. You know he is thinking of how to turn the events into his own favor. He has you back, which may or may not be to his use. And he knows you know something, something you pretended to only tell Hua-Lung. He has to investigate that. He needs the upper hand over his brothers too much to let such a thing go.

 

“We will have to repay Monsieur Golzine somehow,” he muses out loud. “And someone will have to be punished, of course. The Monsieur will know that Chinatown was involved. And yet…”

 

Sing’s hands are shaking, but his face is stern and rebellious. 

 

“You have my gratitude for saving my baby brother’s life. You may leave us, for now. My secretary will show you to the ground floor.” He waves his hand, dismissing Sing.

 

And like that, he has underestimated the boy. As you hoped he would. You want to breathe a sigh of relief, but that would be too obvious. You still cannot keep your shoulders from slumping. You are so tired.

 

Sing is still in the office, being shown out the door, when Wang-Lung’s next words make you tense right back up again.

 

“Undress.”

 

Sing stops in the door, eyes wide as he glances back at you. The secretary’s heavy hand on his shoulder forces him through the doorway, and the door shuts and locks as he’s shown away. The Banana Fish sample is safe in his jacket pocket. Wang-Lung won’t know. You hope Sing will behave.

 

You turn to look back at your brother. Trying to read his face, frozen in place. His men are still here. Suk-Lieu, who’s raised you since your mother was killed.

“What?” you ask. You are not sure you heard him right.

 

Wang-Lung has hit you before. Strangled, kicked, broken bones and skin. But he has never taken such liberties with your body, as much as its his to rent out or gift to business partners or enemies, depending on the situation. Often, the two are the same.

 

Your face heats up and you hate how your fingers tremble as you loosen the ribbon keeping your robes on. You are glad he allowed Sing to leave. The silk falls to the floor, and you fight the instinct, still there, so useless, to cover yourself up.

 

Wang-Lung studies you with those piercing, dark eyes. You want to rip them out of their sockets. He nods to one of his men, you do not take your eyes off of your brother to see who, and he approaches you. You refuse to flinch. You  _ refuse. _

 

He picks up your robes and shake them out. A small tin falls out of a pocket. Your needles stay put in the sleeve, however. The man,  _ you refuse to look at anyone, _ picks up the tin and examines it.

 

“Ointment,” he says. You do not recognize the voice. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter.

 

Wang-Lung smirks. You hate him. You  _ hate _ him.

 

The hand on the back of your neck is coarse and burning hot against your cold skin, and you  _ hate  _ yourself for folding forward across the desk so easily. There are fingers inside you, without warning or care, seeking something. It burns, but nowhere near as much as your face.

 

You glare at Wang-Lung. Pinned to his desk by one of his faceless goons, you  _ hate _ . 

 

“Nothing,” the voice behind you says.

 

Wang-Lung has the nerve to look disappointed. He leans back in his chair and turns his head away. “Get dressed.”

 

You pick the silk robe up off of the floor and pull it on. “Do you think I am hiding something from you,  _ brother _ ?” You sneer, spitting the word in his face.    
  
You didn’t know you were still capable of feeling this way, this humiliated. Wang-Lung looks as if he’s about to slap you for your insolence, but perhaps he decides getting cavity searched was punishment enough. He rises from his desk, circles around to you. You move in mirror, turning to face him as he approaches. He is the only person in this room who deserves your attention, and one day you will kill him.

 

“I have reason to believe you were contacting Hua-Lung behind my back.” You glance at Suk-Lieu. She is staring past you. She used to tuck you in and tell you stories, at night, until Wang-Lung made her stop.

 

You turn your attention back to Wang-Lung, and force a smile. You don’t bother to make it look convincing. You need Wang-Lung to be suspicious, after all, but you still need to outwardly assuage him enough that he doesn’t decides to end you on the spot. You would like to believe that he needs your skills, but you know you are only useful for as long as he believes you are obeying him - whether due to loyalty or fear.

 

“Am I not allowed to miss my brother, while a hostage for my family’s gain?” You ask, teasing at coyness. You know Wang-Lung knows how Hua-Lung uses you. You know he disapproves for the sake of propriety, but not enough to interfere. Only enough to slam you back onto the desk, on your back this time, his fingers digging into your neck. He favors this position, feeling your pulse flutter beneath his palm. You surrender, as always.

 

“You’re a whore just like your mother,” Wang-Lung says, his voice flat. “And if you ever disobey me, I’ll kill you just the same.”

 

It’s not the first time you hear it. It’s been less frequent in the last few years, as you’ve grown more accustomed to your role, more numbed, less rebellious. His words sink into you all the same, digging deeper into your mind each time.

 

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Sir,” you respond, eyes downcast. He lets go of you, and you move to stand.

 

You bow your head, an act of submission. This is how you dance with Wang-Lung, how it has to play out. He knows you as rebellious but weak. When he succeeds in beating you back in your place, he feels satisfied. You must give him this satisfaction, or he will keep pushing it. You know not to give in too easily.

 

With that, you are dismissed. Or rather, you are shuttled away. Two of Wang-Lung’s men lead you to the elevator and ride down to the ground floor with you. They do not speak to you, but you feel their eyes on your back all the same. You do not speak. You are exhausted. You need a shower.

 

Outside, a limo awaits you. It takes you to one of Hua-Lung’s New York apartments - like Wang-Lung, he has a series of residences across the world, wherever business takes him.

 

Hua-Lung doesn’t greet you in an office, but in a sitting room. He acts more personable than your oldest brother, pretends to be a friendly person to hide as sharp and ambitious a mind. He is entertaining three of his men at the moment - they are smoking, drinking and talking.

 

They ignore your arrival briefly, and you consider sneaking away to your own rooms, until Hua-Lung looks up at you.

 

“Ah! There you are. I am relieved you are unharmed. Zheng was just telling me what happened at the mansion.” He says, and his words are a trap. You can tell by his eyes, the way they are trying to see right through your skull and into your mind.

 

His guests look up at you, too. You recognize them, they were in the mansion, and you understand that they must be the men Ash spoke about. They must have escaped when the fighting began, but you cannot be sure whether they came looking for you first, if their orders had been to get you out after you contacted Hua-Lung. If they had been unable to find you after you went off on your own, they might have told Hua-Lung as much. And you cannot afford Hua-Lung distrusting you, not now.

 

A plan falls into place. You watch them wearily, and wrap your robe around yourself tighter. 

 

Unwittingly playing into your plan, the leader of the trio, the one with the sunglasses and the awful attempt at a moustache - Zheng, you don’t recall his given names -  raises his eyebrows at the sight of you. And you must be a sight, dressed only in the thin silk evening robe you’ve worn since escaping the Monsieur’s bedroom. 

 

“Big brother”, you murmur, and add a tremble into your voice. It is not difficult. You are so, so tired. “May I speak to you in private?”

 

He knows you have secret news for him alone, and you know he has missed you, too. He couldn’t help himself from touching you at the airport. Before you were sent to New York, you were undercover for weeks at Alexis Dawson’s empty house, pretending to be his houseboy turned adopted son. It was the most independence you have had in your life, and a blessed solitude.

 

There is a hunger in Hua-Lung’s eyes and he nods. “Excuse us, gentlemen. We will continue this conversation later.”

 

With the dismissal, the trio leaves, and you are alone with Hua-Lung.

 

You force yourself to release the tension in your shoulders, relaxing where you stand before him. You are shaking, not on purpose. But it still serves your plot. In one move, you can win Ash's favor and shut Zheng up before he makes Hua-Lung suspect you further. 

 

“Zheng told me he couldn’t find you when those hooligans attacked,” Hua-Lung says, as he walks up behind you and brushes his fingers through your tangling hair. Your skin itches. You need a shower. “They had to flee the mansion without you.”

 

“Zheng is lying,” you counter. Your brother’s fingertips dance down your neck, and you suppress a shudder. You can’t stop your skin from breaking out into goosebumps, though.

 

“Oh?” He asks, and his lips are against your ear, his hands inside your robe now. You are filthy and smell like smoke, but it doesn’t give him pause. Nothing ever does.

 

“After the Monsieur left, Zheng and his men. They came to me. He shoved me down, and… they had sex with me." 

 

Hua-Lung brushes your robes off your shoulders and steps back. He looks at your thin body,  _ beautiful,  _ he always says,  _ just like her _ . He looks at the bruises on your neck, left by Ash Lynx and Wang-Lung. Looks at the love bites down your back, the finger marks on your hips, left by Dino Golzine. The blood on your hands. He sees you, and he believes you. 

 

He is outraged, glowering with the same disgust that lives in Wang-Lung's eyes whenever he notices you exist. He is not outraged because you have been raped -  _ over and over and over and more often than not by Hua-Lung himself  _ \- but because a mere footsoldier helped himself to the droit du seigneur. Only the rich and powerful have the right to fuck you.

 

"Wu!" Hua-Lung snarl, drawing the attention of one of his attendants, the one he usually assigns to guard you. Wu is silent and discreet, and he bows his head from his place in the corner, where he was politely pretending not to notice the two of you. "Those three are to be captured. Warehouse 3. I will see to them later."

 

Wu bows again and hurries away, and Hua-Lung turns his attention back to you. 

 

"What were you drinking?" you ask, and reach for one of the glasses, not yet empty, on the coffee table. 

 

"You're too young to drink," Hua-Lung protests. 

 

You down the liquid anyway, and he doesn't move to stop you. You haven't been too young for things for a long, long time. 

 

He stares at you for a moment, before he tops up your glass, and you empty it again. It isn't poisoned, what a shame. It burns on the way down, hard liquor, and settles like a warmth into your limbs, into your mind. It isn't enough to save you, but it is enough to numb you. 

 

"Let's clean you up," he says, but means the opposite. He leads you to his bedroom suite, his arm heavy around your shoulders. 

 

When you were still  _ too young _ , Suk-Lieu used to tell you a bedtime story about the  _ waa-pei _ . 

 

_ One day, a well-off scholar named Wang met a beautiful young girl out walking. She was struggling so to carry a bundle of all her belongings on her back, and she was so beautiful and young that Wang felt pity for her.  _

 

_ "Where are you going all alone so early in the morning?"  _

_ "If you cannot help me in my distress, why do you even ask?" responded the girl.  _

_ "I will do anything I can to help," the scholar assured her. "What distress might such a young, beautiful girl be in?"  _

 

_ And the girl told Wang why she was walking alone, carrying such a burden.  _

 

Wang-Lung has a wife and children. You have never met them. He has a mistress as well - a concubine, they used to call them. Hua-Lung has a wife, homely but fertile-looking. No children, which isn't so strange. He is rarely home with her, and you know what he likes. 

 

Your mother was a concubine at the age of ten. You, at least, will never risk having to carry Hua-Lung's child. 

 

_ "My mother and father are greedy," she said, "And they sold me as a concubine. My master's wife is jealous of me, and beats me as soon as he leaves the house. I could not take it any longer, and ran away." _

 

_ "Poor child," Wang sighed. "Where are you running to?"  _

 

_ "I have nowhere to go," admitted the girl.  _

 

_ "My home is nearby," Wang said. "If you would like to stay there." _

 

"How was he?" asks Hua-Lung. You pull away and brushes your hair back behind your shoulders. He runs his fingers over the dragon tattoo on your neck. He was the one who held you down when it was engraved into your skin. 

 

That night had been your first time. 

 

"How was who?" You ask, after swallowing to clear your mouth. His expression is hard to read - or rather, it's all lust. No hint at who he is talking about. 

 

"Ash Lynx, of course. For the Union Corse to be so up in arms over him… He has to be special."

 

You ponder the question for a moment. You are oddly grateful that your brother isn't asking for intimate details about the Monsieur, while you're between his legs. 

 

"A formidable foe," you settle on. "A demon with the face of an angel."

 

"How poetic," Hua-Lung chuckles. "You're a romantic." He is impatient already, and pushes you back down.

 

_ Wang took the young girl to his home, carrying her bundle for her. He showed her inside into his library.  _

 

_ "Do you not have a family?" she asked.  _

 

_ "I have a wife," he said.  _

 

_ "You cannot tell anyone I am here," said the girl fearfully.  _

 

_ He promised not to tell, and they lay together in secret. The girl stayed there for several days, until Wang's wife grew suspicious. He told her about the girl, and that he had invited her.  _

 

_ His wife asked Wang to send the girl away, but he refused to do so.  _

 

On better days, Hua-Lung has the grace to be ashamed, and tells you to leave when he is finished. Other days, he feels sentimental. This is such a day, and though you ache for a hot shower and your own bed, he wraps his arms around you from behind and holds you. 

 

It feels just as it did then, when you were far too young, and watched your mother die. 

 

Your brother strokes your hair and nuzzles against the tattoo on your neck, kissing it. 

 

"You seem distracted."

 

"I'm just tired," you say. 

 

"You're beautiful," he says.

 

_ One day, Wang met a priest in the market, and the priest confronted him.  _

 

_ "You have been bewitched! Have you met with some evil creature?"  _

 

_ Wang denied such things, but the meeting scared him, and he thought of the girl. But such a beautiful young thing could not possibly be a demon. _

 

_ Yet when he returned home, he found the door to his library locked. Concerned, he crept up to the window and peeked inside. There, he saw a hideous monster, a demon. It had stretched a human skin out on the bed, and, with careful strokes of its paintbrush, it painted a pretty face onto the skin. Then it sat the brush aside, shook the skin out, and put it on. Wang was shocked to see that it was the beautiful young girl he had pitied so!  _

 

Once Hua-Lung is finally snoring behind you, you detangle yourself carefully. Your body aches with exhaustion. The numbness alcohol blessed you with has faded. 

 

You stare down at your brother, sprawled out naked in the bed. Your skin itches. You want to kill him. 

 

_ Wang went to find the priest again, and begged him for help. The priest gave him a feather brush to hang at the door, saying it would drive away the demon.  _

 

_ Wang was frightened, but he did not want to harm the poor girl still, so he went home and hung the brush on his bedroom door, and then he went to sleep.  _

 

_ However, the girl was only frightened by the brush briefly - then she tore it up, and her skin fell off, and she became a hideous demon.  _

 

_ "I will not give up what is already mine!" she shouted, and rushed into the bedroom. She attacked Wang where he lay on the bed and tore open his chest. She devoured his heart, and then vanished.  _

 

You leave Hua-Lung to sleep, and you retreat to your own room to wash your skin clean again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suk-Lieu's story is a retelling of the first part of Pu Songling's The Painted Skin from Liaozhai Zhiyi, Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio.


	5. Esci Omai, Garzon Malnato

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, thanks for reading! Warning for some gore and disturbing medical imagery in the beginning of this chapter. And as always, please mind the tags.

_ It has been over a year since you had this dream _ .  _ It started after you brought Griffin home from the understaffed and overcrowded nursing home, and did not stop until the last of his bedsores finally healed, months after you brought him home.  _

 

_ You are walking through endless, empty hallways. It is dark, and the air smells of decay and piss, barely covered up by antiseptic and hand sanitizer.  _

 

_ Faceless, rotting shadows stand along the walls, groaning and sobbing, coughing, rocking. Nurses rush by, looking too old for their age. They are stretched so thin they are nearly transparent.  _

 

_ You are looking for Griffin, and you are so, so small. As little as you were when you last remember him, before he left to get shot at and drag dead bodies through the desert and get hooked on drugs to survive.  _

 

_ He told you boys don't cry, and you've disappointed him so often since then.  _

 

_ You know you are dreaming, but that doesn't mean you can stop. You know this is in the past, a contorted memory, that your fear isn't real anymore, that Griffin is dead and no longer suffering. And still.  _

 

_ You move forward, one foot after the other, the doors and faceless strangers around you growing taller and taller as you shrink. You know you are coming closer. You know you will find him soon.  _

 

_ You have to reach up high, get up on your tiptoes and grab the doorknob, sweaty fingertips slipping on the metal. The door opens, and the stench knocks you back. Feces, vomit and rot. It's a dark room, lit only by the horizontal stripes of light shining in through the blinds. The log on the door suggests no one has checked on this patient in days.  _

 

_ Griffin, your brother, who's raised you all by himself since you were born and until he left you, lays immobile in the bed.  _

 

_ His eyes stare blankly at the ceiling, looking into a horror you cannot see. A fly lands on his unshaven chin, and more are flocking to the blankets covering his lower half.  _

 

_ You pull them away, and beneath them your brother is rotting away. Left to lie in his own waste for days, maybe longer. His legs are festering, open wounds, maggots eating away at his flesh.  _

 

_ Normally, this is where the dream would end. After this, in reality, you wheel him away, wash him clean, treat and bandage his wounds, the smell lingering in your nose for weeks. _

 

_ This time, it's different.  _

 

_ This time, Griffin's eyes focus on your face.  _

 

_ This time, he sees you. He recognizes you.  _

 

_ And he screams. He screams, the same scream Shorter screamed last night when he saw Eiji. Griffin screams and screams and begs you to save him, begs for it all to stop.  _

 

_ The pain never stopped. Paralyzed, unable to voice his suffering. You cared for him for so long, hiding him away from the world, doing Dino’s dirty work to make money for Griffin’s meds. _

 

_ And all along, your brother just wanted to die.  _

 

Bear's hideout smells like mold and exposed brick. You wake up slowly, body aching, to a sunbeam filtering in through the filthy windows. From the angle, you know it is almost noon. 

 

Which means no one dared obey you, even as you ordered them to wake you after two hours. 

 

You know you needed the rest, but you feel like you've wasted so much time. By now, Dino has returned to find the rubble of his mansion, and has paid off investigators and politicians to ensure the fire isn't looked into too hard. By now, he and Arthur are looking for you. 

 

And here you are, unable to get out of bed. Still wearing the suit you've been forced into. Still with blood and brain matter on you. 

 

Your knuckles are bruised and cut up. You beat a man to death yesterday, and you felt nothing. 

 

You didn't shoot Shorter yesterday, and you felt everything. 

 

The cold dark ocean rises up inside you and you have to get out of bed before it swallows you, before you're unable to move at all. Your eyes sting and you almost rub at them. You pause when you see chips of white - teeth - buried in your skin. 

 

Gravity almost overwhelms you, but you get to your feet as the world tilts beneath you, and you push the door open to the main room of the hideout. 

 

Your closest gang is waiting there, lounging on couches, draped on chairs, leaning on walls. There's Alex, of course, who's been your most loyal follower since the beginning. He's into you, you can't help but notice that look in his eyes. 

 

There's Bones and Kong, sprawled out on each other on a couch, playing on their phones. There are other guys staring at nothing, or sneaking a nap. All of them waiting for you. 

 

It makes you feel sick. 

 

"I said two hours," you say. Your voice comes out as a hoarse rasping, and you clear your throat. "Why did no one wake me?" 

 

"No offense, Boss," Alex speaks up. "You looked like you needed the rest."

 

You glare at them, making your displeasure known. As much as you’d like to argue about it, it is counterproductive at this time. You want everyone gone, and you want a bath. 

 

“Bones, Kong. Get me some burner phones and a laptop”, you begin to fire off orders. It is what everyone has been waiting for, after all. You give them tasks, a purpose, protection. And in return, they give you your freedom, however conditional it is. “Joey, Shadow. Reach out to the network, check out who’s still around, who the leaders are. If Arthur and the mob is cleaning up the city, we need to know who we can still trust. AJ, get me the Fly. Double the usual. He knows I’m good for it.”

 

They take off as one, leaving you with Alex. He’s been with you the longest. Not as long as Shorter, but close. You don’t want to break down but if you do, you trust him not to hold it against you. He’s gone with you to Dino before, to make deliveries or pick up goods, and while he doesn’t know the whole story, you know he’s clever enough to guess parts of it.

 

If Shorter was still here, the two of you would drink in honor of Eiji. You never talked deeply about serious things, but he was always there for you, always able to turn any moment lighter. He could make you smile when you felt empty inside.

 

If Eiji was still with you, you could see yourself open up to him. You would talk to him about Shorter, about the nightmare with Griffin, maybe even your life with Dino. Eiji would see the best in you, even if no one else could. You want him there. You want to cry on his lap. He’d never tell you  _ boys don’t cry _ . 

 

“Boss,” Alex speaks, drawing your attention away from your thoughts. “I’m sorry. About Shorter. And Eiji. If you need anything-”

 

You grab him by the arms. He’s taller than you, but your intensity makes him shrink back. You’re gripping him hard, and he flinches.

 

You want to cry. You want to kill someone. You want to die. You want Shorter back. You need Eiji, the only person who’s touch never repulsed you. You want, you want, you  _ need _ this pain to stop.

 

“Ash,” Alex’s voice wavers. “We’ll get back at him. We’ll get even.” He stares at your face, gaze flickers down to your lips. You know you look disgusting. Your own heart is tearing you into pieces and you need it to  _ stop _ , you need to go away, to distance yourself, to go numb again.

 

“Shut up,” you growl, and you kiss him.

 

There is no love in it, no desire. Only teeth and desperation. You rush to submerge yourself.

 

_ After the first few dozen times of Mr Peterson taking you home after practice, you learned. You learned how to separate your mind from your body, to ignore the pain and humiliation and fear. You learned to force the panic away, to push aside every single part of you that rebelled at how you were being treated, and think. You wouldn’t get any help. Griffin was far, far away shooting  _ other _ bad guys, the police thought you were the bad guy, not your coach. Your dad knew you were telling the truth, but he still wouldn’t help you. So you helped yourself. You took a gun and you shot your coach, killing the bad guy, and you cried when the panic finally hit, and you hoped Griffin wouldn’t be disappointed in you. _

 

_ Not long after that you learned that there were so many bad guys you couldn’t possibly save yourself from all of them. You learned, and you went numb, and each and every time, for every Robert Peterson and Bill Garvey and Marvin Crosby and Frank Sanchez and Dino Golzine and William Kippard and Arthur Smiles and William Scott and _

 

You feel yourself slip, that rift between your body and your mind widening. You feel light and distant and numb. You have nearly shoved everything away into a ticking time bomb, a future panic attack that you do not have time for right now, when Alex pulls away from you, nursing a bleeding lip.

 

“What the hell!” he snaps at you. You stare at him, and whatever he sees in your eyes makes his anger soften. It isn’t right for you to use him like this, but what choice do you have?

 

“I’m gonna take a bath,” you say, and walk away from him, from those puppy eyes he can’t help but give you. “Get me some soap, and some new clothes.”

 

You’ve been lounging in the water for a long time when Alex returns, handing you the soap sheepishly and hesitating to look at you. You should apologize, but you would rather not talk about it.

 

“I get that you’re going through some shit right now,” Alex says. It sounds practiced. That explains why it took him so long to go to the corner shop and come back with soap. “But don’t do that to me again. I care about you, Boss. So I can’t. Unless you’re into it, I can’t.”

 

You look up at him from the tub. Your thoughts have cleared, and you see the pain on his face. It’s another stab to the heart, but it feels dull. Distant. Alex is older than you. He should be tougher than this. You should be tougher than this.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you respond. There is a cold tension in the air.

 

Alex still stands there, as if wanting to say something else. But he doesn’t, so you pretend he isn’t there and wash yourself. There is blood in the water by the time you climb out.

 

After watching you for a moment, Alex sighs and takes out a first aid kit from the medicine cabinet behind the sink. 

 

"Here," he says, and takes your hand. He cleans your wounds and bandages them for you. You say nothing. You don't know what to say to him.

 

By the time the others return, you’re as clean as you are ever going to get. Wearing a t-shirt and ripped jeans, you feel more like yourself. Missing large chunks, perhaps, but you have put yourself back into a shape somewhat resembling who your gang expects you to be.

 

Bones and Kong hand over the phones and a laptop, all fairly beat up. You get to setting them up, making sure they’re clean, before you install the cash SIM cards and get online. You send AJ out again to get food for you all. 

 

Everyone eats in tense silence. You are picking away at your lo mein and cha sui bao when you hear steps outside the apartment. Alex leans out in front of you and pulls out his gun, aiming it at the door.

 

Out steps the Fly, hands in the air, smiling as cocky as ever. “Easy there. You wouldn’t harm a fly, would you?”

 

You wipe your hands on your shirt and rise from the couch. The Fly looks you over and nods. “About time you came back. Arthur’s got everyone running scared out there.”

 

“And that’s lost sales for you,” you conclude, crossing your arms over your chest. You don’t know much about the Fly - no one really does. How old he is, where he’s from, who he actually works for. He’s as knowledgeable about street politics as he is about classic art - you’ve pawned off more than a few of Dino’s gaudy belongings to him before. And while he’s dressed like a flashy pimp from some old action movie, he blends in like a chameleon with any of the main players in New York. 

 

You trust him, if only because he’s a businessman and as he likes to say, ‘ _ baby, you’re good for business _ ’.

 

“Got your order, ghost boy.” The Fly lays out the goods on the table, next to your food. Automatics for the gang. Short barrel revolver for you. There’s very few things Dino Golzine has turned you on to that you actually like. The feeling of a revolver in your hands is one of them.

 

“Rumor has it, the Union Corse’s got some money on your pretty little head.” 

 

You load the revolver, feel the weight, the solid metal. It grounds you. Reminds you. You won’t hesitate again.

 

“Good,” you smirk at him. “I’m dying for a fight.”

 

“Your funeral,” the Fly tuts. “Speaking of-”

 

You snort. “No casket or church service for me. Burn me to cinders. I’m going somewhere real hot anyway. Might as well get a head start.”

 

“Alright, alright. I can tell when I’ve outstayed my welcome. I’ll let you get back to your noodles. Just the matter of payment.”

 

You rip the stone from your ear. It’s oversized and expensive. The Fly holds his hand out and you drop the earring in his waiting palm. You rub your earlobe between thumb and forefinger. The hole should heal clean. Your skin has always cleaned up well.

 

The Fly scrutinizes the stone carefully, his nose wrinkling. He lifts his sunglasses to squint at it closer. “Jadeite. Imperial grade… from Myanmar, then. Should be worth...”

 

“About 400 000,” you interrupt his spiel. “To the right seller.” 

 

You hear Alex whistle behind you. It is a lot of money, more than what your new artillery’s worth. But you’re ready to get rid of it, and there’s something about the idea of using a present from Dino to pay for the gun you’re going to use to put a bullet in him that’s very satisfying to you.

 

The Fly whistles, too. “Man, I dunno why you’d cut off a cash flow like that, but each to their own.”

 

“Don’t make me get the fly swatter,” you tell him. He shrugs and leaves with his payment.

 

You sit back down to finish eating, your stomach growling, when one of the phones Kong got you dings with a notification. It’s a burner smartphone, cheap and easily replaceable. No one should have your number.

 

It’s a multimedia message from an unlisted number.

 

It feels as if time slows down when you open it. It’s a photo attachment, and your crappy phone downloads it slowly. Any number of possibilities run through your mind - wrong message, blackmail, Dino has found you. Once the photo loads, you have more questions than answers.

 

You recognize the bodies in the photo. Three men, Chinese. The leader isn’t wearing his sunglasses, but you’d recognize that scraggly attempt at a mustache anywhere. Even on a face streaked with blood. The three of them are dead, on a concrete floor, a bullet in each of their brains.

 

You stare at the phone in disbelief. You rake your brain for answers. You know who must have sent the picture now, but you can’t understand why. Your throwaway comment about Jessica last night must have left an impression.

 

Like a pet cat, Yut-Lung brought you another offering. It may have been his fault that Shorter, Eiji, Max and Ibe were caught and murdered. But he’s given you four bodies now. Abraham who killed your brother and, by his invention, Shorter and Eiji. And these three, who hurt Jessica.

 

A text comes through from the same unlisted number. From Lee Yut-Lung, the youngest of the Lee brothers. Who set up a trap to bring you back to Dino, as a gift from Lee Wang-Lung. Who killed to get you out of there. Who didn’t fight you at all when you tried to kill him.

  
_ We are even,  _ the text says.  _ Will you keep your promise? _


	6. Kleshaphala

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Klesha: a mind poison, hindu concept of ideas, emotions and obsessions that create negative actions, such as rage, jealousy or desire.
> 
> Karmaphala: the result of Karma, the karmatic outcome of an intentional action.

You find Jessica's professional contact information on Playgirl's website, attached to one of her written articles. You correlate the information to external databases, and find a few personal email addresses and phone numbers. Searching those yields one landline phone and two current cellphones - one professional and one private, you assume. 

 

You choose the number associated with her home address in LA, and you send her a message. You don’t know what to say to her - you don’t like her, and she doesn’t like you. But you were warming up to Max, who’s now dead because of you. And you know what it’s like, living in fear.

 

So you send her the picture. You’ve made sure there’s nothing identifying in it, and you’ll discard this phone after this anyway, since Yut-Lung somehow already found your number.

 

You get a notification saying the picture was delivered. You know she’ll recognize the dead men. You don’t wait for her reaction. You turn the phone off, but take out the SIM card in case you need to contact Yut-Lung again.

 

It feels like a weight on you, still. You think about Michael. Regardless of how you feel about Jessica, a kid doesn’t get to choose his parents. He watched his mom get raped, and now his dad isn’t coming back. He’ll probably never know why - you definitely can’t tell Jessica what happened. She could become even more of a target if she knew. 

 

You think about Jennifer. You think about Shorter. You think about Eiji. You think about Mercy, your friend from three years ago. Girlfriend, maybe. If you’d been allowed that kind of human connection. Her full name was Mercedes, and she ran away from home, sold herself for food and shelter. She had been a nobody, and then she was a nothing. Another body on the bottom of the Passaic River. 

 

Papa Dino got what he wanted, always. And you thought you had learned to adapt. To not desire anything beyond what he could give you. To accept what you were, and live as well as you could anyway.

 

You learned to accept him. This is a fact, though not one you like to consider. When you proved yourself as a gang leader, he gave you distance. Allowed you your own apartment, your own money. You returned to the mansion every so often. He’d give you tasks to perform, usually retrieving money for various debts, or work as a liaison between the Union Corse and the street gangs. He didn’t rent you out to his powerful friends anymore, and only expected your presence in his bed once every so often.

 

It was okay. For a while, you were almost free. You almost believed you could continue like that - eventually, he’d have to grow bored of you. At 17, you should already be too old for him. If you just survived past desirability, maybe you could just live. Continue running your gang, caring for Griffin, raising Skip. Not forgiving or forgetting, but living. Dino would move on to someone else, eventually. Some other poor kid’s life ruined. 

 

That won’t help you get revenge, Yut-Lung said.

 

And then, Banana Fish fell into your lap, and everything fell apart. 

 

You can’t let this go. Griffin’s mental breakdown and his death. Then Skip, Jennifer. Max and Ibe. Shorter and Eiji. The suicides, the strange deaths. Political enemies. You know the company Dino keeps, the people he has enough dirt on to control.

 

Dino wants war. He’s trying to break you, tightening his grip on you until you shatter into pieces.

 

You intend to slice his old, greedy, wrinkly disgusting hands open when he does. If he won’t let you live, you’ll take him down with you. You can’t win this. But you sure as hell can make sure he doesn’t, either.

 

When you open up the browser of the laptop, you realize part of Dino’s plan.

 

The main headlines everywhere are about the murder-suicide of a democratic senator. Peter Groteschele, running an election campaign against the republican sitting president, murdered the night before by his aide. The aide, Christina Row, then begged the shocked hotel maid, who stumbled onto the scene, for help before slicing her own throat. A brutal, bloody murder, the pleading, the suicide. Banana Fish.

 

You keep scrolling, and what you see makes your heart sink again. Your mugshot stares up at you from the news pages. It’s an old photo. Not your latest arrest for Marvin’s murder, but before that. Manslaughter. Juvenile detention. Where you met Shorter.

 

You read the article.

 

_Teenage gang leader wanted for attack on Golzine mansion_

 

_The attack on the North Caldwell home of billionaire philanthropist Dino Golzine, CEO for Webster Ecom, which resulted in the deaths of at least 20 people and millions of dollars in property damage, is now believed to have been perpetrated by juvenile gang leader Ash Lynx._

 

_A source in the NYPD confirms that surveillance footage from the mansion shows a suspect believed to be Ash Lynx fleeing the scene with several as of yet unidentified accomplices._

 

_When asked for a comment, Dino Golzine declined. However, a staff member who requested to remain unnamed stated that the likely motive for the attack is Golzine’s contributions to the Youth Development Fund and the Association for Eradication of Juvenile crimes._

 

_Golzine is one of the founder for both organizations, which aim to stop juvenile gangs and rehabilitate young criminals. Several celebrities and politicians have spoken out in support of Golzine, including the mayor of New York City._

 

You close the tab, tasting bile. This is an expected response - you already knew parts of the NYPD was in Golzine’s pocket. You know some of his politician friends very intimately. Whichever party, whichever side. Money talks, and if you follow the electronic trail of it…

 

You open up the remote access program you wrote for practice, and log onto the host computer. You know how Dino operates. He never saw his boys as people, never as a threat. He took advantage of you, and you reciprocated. You learned how to separate yourself, how to grow numb to what happened to your body and think, instead. Plan. Memorizing his computer passwords, planting your own codes in his computer.

 

Those seeds have finally grown, and now they’re bearing fruit.

 

It’s as easy as a few transfers in several, untraceable steps. Through Dino’s Bahamas account, through the Cayman islands, to your own account in Switzerland. It’s a pretty easy calculation of how much he owes you. Your going rate was $20 000 a night. Golzine has had you since you were 11. That is two thousand two hundred and fifty seven nights. Adjusted for taxes, you land on 49 million two hundred thousand.

 

Once the money is in your numbered account, you start up the rumor mill. All that’s needed is a few official-looking emails from various stock broker agencies, sent between one another. A few whispers and nudges here and there, and watch the sell orders tumble in.

 

It's a dull satisfaction. A message, more than payback. And a necessity, at that. You can't stay here forever. And if you want to bring Dino down, you need to get closer to him. 

 

"I'm going out," you tell Alex one you're done. 

 

He gives you a worried look. 

 

"Boss, Arthur's gotta be looking for you."

 

You shake your head. "I'm going alone. Hold down the fort. Map out what gangs are still around. I'll be back tonight."

 

You make your way across town with your head on a swivel, making sure you're not followed. Your hand grasps tightly at the comforting firmness of the gun in your jacket. At the first chance, you duck into a store and do some clothes shopping. 

 

Chinatown feels different today. The Chinese gang tends to remain neutral - staying out of the business of others, but fiercely territorial. You've never been a threat, respecting their turf. 

 

With a new leader, and Lee Wang-Lung making deals with the Corsicans, you don't know where you stand. You don't know who you are. 

 

There are two Ash Lynxes, with an Aslan Jade Callenreese buried deep beneath. The first Ash is a rough gang leader, in ripped jeans and with a gun in his pants. The other Ash is a polished gem with a silk tongue, well read and better dressed. The first might shoot someone for looking at him wrong. The other will spread his legs for the right price. You don't know which one is you, and now you're adding a new persona to your roster. 

 

You're Christopher Winston. Your disguise is simple, but it works. You dress like a tourist, like you have money, eye catching and supremely out of place. Dino is expecting you to be hiding, so you don't. You affect an oblivious, naive self-certainty, a rich boy who's never had reason to hide. You're from out of town, looking for an apartment downtown so you can enroll in college. And right now, you're stopping by Chinatown, looking for an authentic New York experience. You're the type of person who'd get pickpocketed. You're wearing clip on sunglasses on your reading glasses. 

 

You step into Chang Dai. The smell of food fills your nostrils and makes your mouth water. Barbecue pork and steamed sui mai. It smells like home, more than any home you've ever had. It smells like staying with Shorter after a rough night, it smells like Nadia yelling at the two of you after you both got drunk, it smells like her cooking you breakfast to help with your hangovers. 

 

"You here alone?" Nadia calls to you. You are alone. "Pick any table, I'll be right with you." 

 

You watch the restaurant while she finishes up. You see the usual - a few Chinese regulars, a few locals, one or two tourists off the beaten track and away from the flashier fares. It's painfully familiar. You are alone. 

 

"What can I get for you?" She asks as she appears at your table, dropping off a menu on the table in front of you. 

 

You lower your sunglasses and look up at her. She gasps, and you see her stagger back. She quickly glances around. Her voice comes out as a sharp whisper. "Upstairs." 

 

You go down the hall behind the kitchen and head upstairs to the apartment. It smells like home and like Shorter, and you grasp at the gun hidden at your waistband. You almost see him sauntering out from his room, greeting you with a cheerful wave. 

 

But Shorter doesn't appear. Nadia comes upstairs behind you, and you turn to her. Her eyes glisten. She hugs you, sudden, tight. You don't have to say anything. She knows enough of your world, of Shorter's world, to know what it means that only you returned home. 

 

Her tears wet your shirt, warms your skin. You want to cry. Your eyes burn and your heart is in painful, jagged, throbbing pieces. You want to cry, and you can't anymore. 

 

Nadia holds you tight, and your arms hang useless, lead heavy at your sides. She sobs against you. You've only seen her cry once before, when you and Shorter got in a shootout with some rival, and Shorter came home with a bullet lodged in his arm, so very close to his chest. Shorter was the only family she had left. 

 

She calms after a while. Still, she hugs you tightly for a moment longer after she stops sobbing, then pulls away. Her face is red and puffy, but her eyes burn into you. 

 

"How?" she asks. "Was it the Lees?" 

 

You hesitate. The less she knows, the better. It's dangerous. But she knows enough about your world to have an idea anyway. 

 

"Dino," you admit. 

 

It's a confession of your own guilt. You are forever tied to Dino, as he to you. Shorter's connection to you is what got him killed. 

 

"I saw the news," she says. "They're looking for you. I should have known what that meant. I think part of me did. I just didn't want to believe it." 

 

It looks as if she may cry again. You fidget. She takes your hand between hers. Her fingers are calloused and dry, the hands of a woman much older than her age, the hands of someone who's worked hard since very young. Her parents died. She took care of her little brother all alone. 

 

You wonder what Griffin would have done, if Banana Fish didn't ravage his mind, if you died. 

 

You took care of Skip. 

 

It's all so unfair. 

 

"I have money for you," you say. You pretend your voice isn't trembling. "In a numbered account. You could pay off your debts. Sell the restaurant and move away. Some place safer." 

 

"Ash…" she lets go of your hands. "How did you…"

 

"I took it from Dino," you say. "You should use it."

 

"That's dirty money," she rages, "and I won't touch it. Anything that belonged to that man."

 

You withdraw, duck your head. You wanted to do something for her. You took her brother away. Her rejection hurts. But you understand it. 

 

You move to leave, so you won't dirty her apartment any longer. 

 

"What are you going to do?" Nadia demands. "Ash! Don't do anything stupid!" 

 

You're halfway down the stairs, when she shouts after you. 

 

"I'll go crazy if I lose you too!" 

 

She always treated you like a younger brother, like family. And you can't endanger her any longer. 

 

You kill everything you touch. 

 

You leave Chang Dai, your only home since Griffin left to lose his mind in the desert, and you don't look back. 

 

You eyes burn. You can't cry. 

 


	7. Lurida Aconita, Tagetes Minuta, Primula Vulgaris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long pause, I've been really busy with work. Thanks for reading!

A few days after your escape from the mansion, Hua-Lung finally leaves his apartments to attend a meeting in Hong Kong. Normally, he would bring you. Important allies and even more important enemies will be there, and you would be useful.

 

However, Wang-Lung has expressed that you may be needed in New York, since the situation with Golzine is still unfolding. Word has it that the Monsieur is in trouble with his bosses, which may be an opportunity.

 

You have spent most of the time in your greenhouse on the roof of Hua-Lung’s penthouse apartments, diving into your research. Your head aches and your fingers burn - you have a new cultivar, and you’ve yet to develop the resistance to it that you’ve gained against most of your weapons. She is a beauty, and deadly. Useful in miniscule doses to cure pain and upset stomachs. Useful in larger doses to cure everything else, permanently.

 

You are trying to take your mind away from Sing, and his whereabouts, and if your brothers realized what you were up to, and if Sing has been curious enough to investigate the vial you gave him to hide.

 

There is a knock on the door behind you and you look up. Suk-Lieu steps in. Wang-Lung sent her back to take care of you - equal parts assistant and spy for your oldest brother. You have never trusted her, but less now than ever. Which means, of course, you act as unguarded as you can. Just a pretty child, doing what he is told.

 

“Master Yut-Lung”, Suk-Lieu says. “There is a Sing Soo-Ling here to see you.”

 

Your heart skips a beat. You turn back to your work, grinding up dried flowers with your mortar and pestle. “Sing works for my brothers, not me. Tell him to come back later.”

 

It’s a bluff. You can’t seem too keen to speak to the boy.

 

“Young master Yut-Lung!” Suk-Lieu chides, always reminding you of your age when she disapproves of your behavior. “This Sing is in the Lee family employ, and you must greet him as such, and relay his message to Master Wang-Lung accordingly.”

 

You lower your head, acting chastised. Then you rise from your seat. “Of course, Suk-Lieu. Invite him in. I will dress and meet him in the parlor.” 

 

The apartments are full of enemies, the walls have ears and those ears report back to your brothers. You tread carefully as you head downstairs. You emerge into the parlor, where Sing is waiting for you. He looks hopelessly awkward, his small form dwarfed by the couch he sits on. He has his dirty shoes on the exquisite rug  which must have cost Hua-Lung tens of thousands of dollars alone. You stifle a pleased smile.

 

“Sing Soo-Ling.” You bow to him. “I never got to thank you fully for saving my life. You have my gratitude.”

 

He squirms, and you sit down across from him. Suk-Lieu brings you tea and goes to pour, but you stop her with a wave of your hand.

 

“I will pour your tea,” you say, taking the tea pot and filling each of your cups.

 

Suk-Lieu hovers by the door to the hallway, away from the guards. You try to read Sing’s expression, his body language. You must communicate with him without so many words.

 

“Now, I hear the streets have become dangerous. You must be very cautious out there." You say, affecting the wide-eyed interest of a sheltered boy. It is Hua-Lung's favorite, and so the one you usually use in his household. Wang-Lung prefers the obedient and hard-working servant when he wants you to study, and the experienced and capable spy-prostitute when he wants you to work. Ironically, the latter is also the role he most seems to hate. 

 

Sing nods. "Yeah, it's been rough. Arthur's tearing through downtown, looking for Ash. Not that he's gonna find him. Ash's too good for him." He smiles, and you see a hint of admiration there. Of hero worship. 

 

Not unlike how your younger self might have seen Hua-Lung. You feel a stab of jealousy, and you are not sure if you are envious because Sing is still so innocent to admire a cruel demon, or because he chose Ash as the fiend to look up to. 

 

You sip your tea. The fragrance is soothing, yet not enough. There are sharp edges under your skin, sand in your eyes, a flutter to your heartbeat. The tea is a warm silk sheet, thin and flimsy, between your skin and the sharpness inside you. It helps, but not enough. You want alcohol. 

 

Sing doesn't touch his tea. Smart kid. He takes off his jacket, drapes it over the back of the couch. It has an interesting design on the back. A dragon, how suitable. He sighs and fans himself. You don't feel warm, but he seems to be. 

 

"So what is it you wanted to speak to my brothers about?" you ask him. "I will relay your message."

 

You need to figure out how to get the Banana Fish sample back from him. You feel eyes on you. Eyes on him. Suk-Lieu is waiting by the door. Wu is by the other door. Nameless, faceless men belonging to Hua-Lung wander the halls of the apartments, and you are not safe. 

 

"Well," Sing huffs, kicking his feet up on the table. "See, the problem is, it's getting real dangerous out there. Old man Golzine might be too smart to try and mess with our guys, but rumor has it, he's gonna leave for a bit. Arthur's gonna take over street level operations."

 

Two of Hua-Lung's guards move forward, as if to make Sing take his feet off the table by force. You hold your hand up to stop them. It's a foolish move, as you hold no more sway here than Sing does, not really. 

 

But they do stop. And it feels  _ good _ . Sing takes the hint, though, and puts his feet back on the ground. 

 

"And Arthur's not going to be so delicate to not burn any bridges, is what you are saying." You state to confirm his point. 

 

Sing nods emphatically. His brown eyes burn with a passion, not dissimilar from what you've seen in Ash's eyes. That urge to protect. To hurt those who may hurt his comrades. 

 

"Arthur knows we were there. At that old Dragon's nest. And that Ash escaped during the attack. He might come looking for him."

 

You understand his point and it falls into place. You're shocked, briefly, that this kid figured it out before you did. You're almost offended that he'd refer to the Monsieur as a dragon, but Wang-Lung styles himself as one, too, and he's hardly more honorable.

 

He meets your gaze, and you give him a nod. You understand. 

 

"I will send word to my brothers to ask for direction. You, of course, know nothing if you are asked." You dismiss him with a flick of your wrist.

 

Sing stands, fists clenched. "That's it? My guys are out there! There's a war brewing, and if they're caught up in it-" 

 

As soon as Sing is on his feet yelling, he's flanked on either side by the same men you just made stand down. 

 

You cross your arms and looks away. "That is all, Sing Soo-Ling."

 

Sing struggles as he's forced to the door. "You gotta protect my men! Arthur's gonna come for us, and-" 

 

He's cut off as he's shoved out of the apartment.

 

"Such short temper," you complain in a loud mutter. "I suppose I will give this back to him later." 

 

You stand and walk over to the couch, and pick up his jacket. You weigh it in your hands. Your heart is racing. You underestimated Sing. The fabric is soft under your fingers, and there is a small, hard object in one of the inner pockets. 

 

"I will be in the greenhouse." You take the jacket with you. No one stops you. 

 

Your lab is upstairs, connected to your greenhouse. It is where you make your medicines, your poisons, and your teas. Quite often, the three are one and the same. 

 

You put on Sing's jacket - it's a little short on you, but it keeps you warm as evening settles in around you. The vial is in the pocket, you have it now. So much pain and fear and death in such a small glass container. 

 

To study it and use it properly, you first need to reproduce it. With gloves and a mask on, you dip a needle into the vial and shake some of the powder into the testing solution. You run a full chemical analysis, and turn your attention to your books while it completes. 

 

You have some theories, having seen the effect of Banana Fish and hearing Abraham Dawson talk about it. You were there when Ash cracked part of the code in Alexis' Dawson's residence, but you know it's not the whole truth. 

 

It's alkaline. You know this much. Plant-based, of course. But with such a dramatic effect, it has to be at least partial synthetic, too. Only artificial refinement of the chemical could make it so potent. You have ancient knowledge, passed down generations to perfect your craft. But this… 

 

Only a place so vulgar as this country could have resulted in such a thing. And with such a gruesome use. Affecting politics, not merely business. Beyond family lines and money.

 

This is military. This is governmental. Multinational.

 

You are putting the pieces together, searching through older news articles and databases of deployment and soldier deaths overseas, when Suk-Lieu comes to get you again. You turn everything off, hide what remains of the sample and place another sample - a basic aconite-hellebore hybrid you have been cultivating - into your phytochemical analyzer. 

 

“Young Master,” she says. “Your brother has sent for you. Your presence is requested immediately. Dress for an assignment, he said.”

 

You take off Sing’s jacket and turn. Suk-Lieu stands in the door to your little lab just off your greenhouse. She steadies herself on the door frame. She is old, yes, but she looks weak now.

 

You nod to her. “Thank you, Suk-Lieu. You should get some rest.”

 

You were somewhat anticipating Wang-Lung sending for you again. It surprises you it has taken so long. The fraught alliance between Wang-Lung and Golzine is in the balance, after all, and you are partially responsible. You assumed you would be punished soon, or be made to pay Wang-Lung back.

 

You dress, brush your hair and put on your makeup before you are driven away. Wang-Lung meets you there first, at a classy french/italian seafood restaurant near the docks, just south of Chinatown.

 

The table is set for four. Wang-Lung is already there waiting, and gestures to the seat to his own left. You sit down, glancing around the place. The clientele is exclusively high class - the kind of wealthy American men who are so at ease with their power they do not display it openly, if you do not know where to look. You look at shoes, ties, rings and watches, at the cuts of suits and at the wines they drink. 

 

There are almost no women in the room, you notice. A few, yes. Wives or lovers of their respective powerful men. And there is you, next to your brother. A waiter comes by and you order wine. Wang-Lung eyes you but does not stop you.

 

“Are you going to ask why you are here?” he asks you.

 

You sip your red and make him wait for an answer. You are in semi-public. He will not hurt you. And he wants you to work, so he will not leave marks. He stews in anger at your dismissal, and you wait for his earlobes to begin turning red, a sure sign that he is about to lash out.

 

“Why am I here?” You ask, as innocently as you can, while the tartness of the wine settles on your tongue and its warmth settles in your stomach.

 

It is not Wang-Lung who answers your question.

 

“You are my guest, of course,” Dino Golzine says. “I am very relieved that you escaped that horrific attack unharmed. Mr Lee assured me you were safe, but I have been quite worried. So, with my apologies, dinner seemed a prudent offering. Welcome to Club Cod.”


End file.
